Sunday, February 2, 2014

A Lonesome Road

I
heard him coming from a mile off, and once he'd stepped in next to me I could
see why.

His spurs were clothespins, glued to each other until they'd come full circle
and centered by tiny, squeaky axles. Each pin was loaded with a miniature
playing card, and when he walked they'd spin, bending and snapping off his boot
heel on the way by, together making the put-put sound of a cartoon watercraft
engine. The boots themselves were a hybrid, obviously custom made by the
Frankenstein family cobbler. The heel screamed Rick James or Parliament
Funkadelic, that big, fat platform thing that looks more like a leather sofa
leg than a shoe part. The toe was pointy, too pointy, needlenose pliers pointy,
as if it had a finger inside, pushing to get away from the toes. The shank was
webbed in golden threads, each crossing clasped by a silver bead, each bead
painted with a yellow smiley.

Tucked into his shitkickers were Zuba sweat pants, orange and white tiger
striped, with red plastic fringe sewn into each outer seam. He wore no shirt;
his skin was blindingly white and pasty, yet he had a series of moles that
appeared to line up in some geometric formation I couldn't identify. I'd
thought the belt of Orion at first, but there were too many; perhaps if I'd had
more time...

He wore a combo hat, two hats modified and sewn together. What was crushed onto
his scruffy hair was a green felt fedora, yet attached to it's brim was the
brim of a straw sombrero at least three feet in diameter. And tied around the
rise and draped over the edge to the rear was a silken, 4 inch wide banner
depicting an asian dragon. It flailed behind him as if it were striking at some
unseen foe, or snatching snacks out of the thin air.

"Where ya goin' mister" I said as I pulled up my zipper and flushed
the urinal.

"What's it to ya" he answered in a voice approaching falsetto.

He had me there. I shrugged, washed my hands and left the room... then ran for
my car to find my camera while shrieking in glee.